Locked Away
by MorbidbyDefault
Summary: Post-RF. Sherlock is staying with Molly until he makes his next move. Boredom is searingly painful, so he decides to rummage. What happens when he comes across a very unexpected trinket? One-Shot, slight Sherlolly, but nothing spoken. Prompt from Benedict-Addict Holmes. Enjoy!


This is a prompt for my dear Aditi, Aka Benedict-Addict Holmes, whom I love! She gave me this prompt about a week ago or so, and I'm FINALLY getting it done. Lol. Anyway, Hope you all enjoy it!

**I don't own the characters, they aren't mine. **

Locked Away

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It had been a month after he stepped off the roof of St. Bart's. It had been a month since he was pronounced dead. Three weeks since his funeral, and two weeks since the media finally stopped camping on Molly's front stoop. Sherlock had really felt terrible about making her go through that part, her association with him being enough for the vultures to swarm over her, waiting for her to break. However, in the past month of waiting for word from his brother, waiting to know what his next move would have to be, he had grown increasingly bored with not being able to do, well, anything really. Molly had returned to work, leaving him alone to her small flat everyday. It had all become too much to handle, finally, when she had told him she was being watched like a hawk at work, and wasn't going to be able to bring him any experiments.

She had left for work that morning, telling him about the plate of food she'd wanted him to eat. Sherlock waited a full fifteen minutes, before he finally set out to explore more of his pathologist's dwellings. He started in the living room, the easiest place to uncover things, as they weren't really hidden there at all. She had shelves full of text books, magazines, and medical journals, all from her years as a student. Then, she had her shelf full of regular literature, mostly romantic or mystery novels. Sherlock admired the way she had sorted her books, classics claiming the top two shelves, and leaving the others in descending order of importance to her. He looked around the living room more, noting her desk was strewn with papers and books as well. He leafed through some of them, only to discover that she, like most people in the medical field, brought her work home with her, on occasion. The incomplete reports sat waiting for her, no doubt going unnoticed until some long and lonely evening, when she would sit down to finish them off. He opened the drawers on the small desk, almost chuckling as he could now see that she was almost as much of a clutter-bug as he was. Organized chaos seemed to be the way she kept things, most likely knowing where everything was, despite the lack of tidy conditions. He grew bored with the living room soon, and strode down the short hallway to her bedroom. His hand almost stopped him, hesitantly reaching for the doorknob. He knew he _shouldn't_ be doing this. She had trusted him completely, allowing him to live with her until he was ready to move into action. No doubt, this would shatter that trust. However, the curiosity was killing him, his mind reeling from absolute boredom. Sherlock wasted no more time in questioning the ethics of his decision, and flung the door open.

Her room was small, yes, but absolutely perfect for the petite woman. It was elegantly designed, holding not much more than her bed and wardrobe. There was a separate linen closet in the corner, and something had drawn Sherlock to it immediately. He opened the sliding door, noting that despite its intended purpose, the closet was filled with boxes. The extra storage space, as Molly had apparently seen it, was filled with brown boxes of different sizes. He had pulled down one of the smaller boxes, marked 'Trinkets'. The tape seemed fairly crisp and still in tact, meaning it had been sealed recently. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he considered the fact that most of these boxes contained things that Molly had kept simply for sentimental purposes. 'Sentiment.'

He carefully peeled the tape back, and pulled the flaps up to reveal the contents of the box. Most of the things had been just that, trinkets. A random oriental fan, a small replica statue of Big Ben, a chipped tea cup, no doubt something from her childhood that she had recently decided no longer fit her décor. As he found his way toward the bottom of the box, he found more and more silly things that most likely held no value aside from the memories attached to them. He then came across a locket. It was beautiful, ornate with a single facet at the center of its front. The stone was missing, most likely a diamond, judging by the way the claws were turned to hold it. The gold pendant sat in the palm of his hand, it's small and intricately carved design weaving about beautifully. He opened the small locket on its side, his fingernail prying easily underneath the heart shaped piece. He had expected a photo, most likely of her father, perhaps one of her mother or a dearly beloved grandmother. However, despite his heavy experience of deducing people's lives, he had never, _never_ expected to see this. There, staring back up at him, with wickedly clever and dark eyes, that sneering smile of twisted psyche, was the face of Jim Moriarty. Sherlock felt his blood run cold, as he looked at the picture. He felt himself grow ill then, as the single question passed his mind: _Why would Molly keep this?_

As if beckoning her with his thoughts, Sherlock heard the front door open and shut quietly. The jingle of keys was tossed onto a near table, and he could hear her calling out for him, her voice drawing nearer. Soon, too soon for him to do anything about it, Molly was in the doorway of her bedroom. He had expected to see a look of shock and outrage on her face, pure hurt and betrayal pouring from the tears in her eyes. However, he was met with a look of pure amusement.

"Molly, I..."

"I see someone finally got desperate." She replied, a small giggle escaping her lips. Sherlock was confused, and stood with the locket still in his hand. Molly saw it at that point, and he noticed the way her blush reddened a bit.

"Why have you kept this, Molly?" He asked slowly. She tilted her head, looking up at his equally confused face.

"Well...I...I know, it's embarrassing. You weren't supposed to see that. It was from a long time ago, when we first met." She shrugged her shoulders. Sherlock became outwardly appalled, she was so willingly talking about it. So easily and casually discussing her former relationship with Moriarty, and it made him positively sick.

"But I have seen it, and it makes me wonder whose side you are really on. Why have you kept this, even if in a box, it's still here, in your flat, in your life. Why, Molly? Why?" His voice was venomous now, quick and sharp as he spat out the question. Molly's eyes grew wide with fear, as well as outrage.

"Who's side I'm on...Sherlock, what are you talking about? And what happened to the diamond in the front?" She asked, pointing at the front of the pendant. Without a word, he thrust the locket into her hand, forcing her to look at the photo.

"I'm talking about the fact that you have a 'dear heart' locket in your possession, containing the photo of the most dangerous criminal mind in the world. Now, I'm waiting for an answer." Sherlock stated coldly, his arms crossing as he waited for her tears to form, apologies spewing from her small lips. However, he was shocked again, as he watched her face pale. Her breath, which had up until now calm, was robbed from her lungs, and her eyes widened with complete fear. In that instant, Sherlock knew he had been wrong about something.

"Molly?"

"Th...this wasn't the picture I had in here...before." She whispered shakily. He saw her fingers begin to tremble, slowly sending the convulsions through the rest of her body. Her small frame shook, and her already pale skin had gone ghostly white.

"Molly...what do you..." Sherlock had begun to ask.

"This locket...the picture inside w...was of you. Before. How did this-when did he...Sherlock, when would he have...been able to do this?" She looked up at him now, the tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. She looked terrified, absolutely terrified at the idea that the criminal had gained access to her most prized possessions without her knowledge. It suddenly struck Sherlock, the realization coming in a flash.

"_That glass is tougher than anything."_

"_Not tougher than crystallized carbon. He used a diamond."_

In an instant, he was by Molly's side, grabbing the locket from her hand quickly and pulling the photo from it. Below, just as she had stated, was a photo of himself. He was sitting at his usual microscope, his body even thinner than now, hair slightly shorter, face slightly younger. True to her word, it had been snapped sometime after they first met. He looked back up at her, her eyes still wide, and the tears had started to fall on her whitened cheeks.

"Sherlock...what if he...what if..." She mumbled quietly, her breath coming out in barely short bursts.

"He's not. Molly, he's not. I saw him stick that gun in his mouth and blow his brains out. He's not alive, he's dead." He stalked over to her, grabbing her shoulders and making her stare up at him. She gasped a bit, before breathing raggedly.

"So are you." She whispered, before crumbling into his arms. Her sobs were muffled by his shirt, and Sherlock sighed out a long breath as he let her cling to him. Molly barely felt his hands sweep her hair to the side of her neck. She did, however, feel the cold line drop onto her skin. She looked up again, to see his hand gracefully letting the pendant fall to her chest. It remained open, the photo of his younger self still inside.

"Wear it. Molly, please." He asked, his eyes meeting hers. She nodded her head a bit, closing it with her fingers.

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Molly awoke the next morning, to complete silence. She sat up a bit, blearily looking around her room. She climbed out of bed and walked to the loo. As she washed the sleep from her face, she looked up in her reflection, immediately taking notice of the locket, Sherlock's picture showing on full display. She held it up to look more carefully now, noting the way the front of it had been broken off at the hinges. A small and sad grin formed on her lips.

She wasn't sure why he would take it, but she didn't mind.

After all, part of her heart belonged with him anyway.

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He had left in the middle of the night, making sure not to wake her. As he walked down the street, climbing into the black car of his brother's. As he closed the door, he met Mycroft's face.

"Did you at least tell her you were leaving, brother?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head slightly.

"She'll know though. I took something with me that she will definitely notice is gone." Sherlock stated as he stared out the window, Molly's flat growing farther and farther away. He pulled the broken piece out of his pocket, sliding his thumb over the rough front of it. As he flipped it over, he looked down at the new photo he had added to it, just before leaving her. In the confines of the small heart shaped piece, was a new photo of Molly. Her face was peaceful, serene, as she slept through the night. Sherlock could still remember the way her skin had felt as he kissed her cheek, before carefully breaking the locket as she wore it. He looked down at the photo of himself again. It was old, before he even knew her. However, he had trusted her, even then. He didn't feel bad in the slightest for breaking the locket to take a piece with him. Honestly, he had deemed it suiting.

Him, once again, breaking her heart.

She, once again, not realizing just how much of his she carried with her whenever he did so.

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There ya go. I hope you liked it! Tell me what you thought in a review or comment okay?!


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